Five years ago Clare lived in Malta for several months while pursing her PADI Dive Master certificate. So most of the stories I hear about Malta all involve crazy wreck-dives and loads of sunshine. Fast-forward to now. We are about to depart Malta after having spent nearly four—FOUR—weeks here, and the only time I’ve been in the water is to clean boat bottoms or attempt to find our lost dinghy anchor. And Clare? She never got in once! Certainly diving is less appealing during days of blustery rainy grey weather—or should I say, weeks of—but how long can such last? “I can’t remember the weather being this bad for this long,” our local friend Clayton admits one afternoon, the same friend who cheered us upon our arrival, “Heyya, no worries huh, it never stays grey in Malta for more than a day!”
Apparently we catch Malta in her seasonal shift, but that’s the thing about this place—as an ever-rotating arsenal of Hollywood lenses confirm—Malta remains jaw-dropping no matter the weather. Like all people who live in an exotic locale for any length of time, the various friends who pick-us-up for one reason or another remain completely unfazed when driving over a stone-bridge built some 500 years ago or passing through the tunnels of a fortress wall perhaps even older. Walls so thick that they require tunnels to transit, not gates. From any high point, a bouquet of church domes litter the horizon in seemingly every direction. The streets are a maze of stairwells, balconies, cobblestones, fortifications, and wrought-iron. Signs everywhere showcase the funkiest combinations of Roman letters imaginable—names like Ix-Xghajra, Marsaxlokk, or Gwardamangia.
Apparently the local language is something between Arabic and Sicilian, spiced by a few other Romances. We make a Maltese friend who had just returned from a trip to Morocco and said that when speaking Maltese he was largely understood by the Arabic-speaking natives, and that likewise he could ascertain more than enough Arabic to get around. Maltese is the only Semitic language that uses Latin script—hence all the crazy spelling. Fortunately, the small island nation has two official languages and the second is English—God save the Queen! We never meet anyone who doesn’t speak English, and have no trouble getting around.
That said, it always helps to know the locals, and considering that we need to buy a brand new outboard engine, having a friend like Clayton on our side makes all the difference. Besides running me all over town and negotiating prices in Maltese with the local store owners, our new engine fits exactly in the bed-space afforded by his gutsy Suzuki Samurai—the only vehicle yet to remind me of my old truck, Abigale. Clayton owns a sailboat as well, so we can speak freely about he challenges of life-aboard…and since he’s plugged-in at the dock, we can use his hot shower without remorse. Cheers mate.
Besides being an all-round great guy, Clayton happens to be a master of languages. He’s Maltese by birth, but spends half of the year working in Norway—so that’s 2. Along the way he’s picked up not only Italian but also Sicilian (apparently a lot of Italians can’t even understand their cousins from the southern island)—3 and 4. From knowing Italian he can get by comfortably in Spanish—5; and if I remember correctly he learned French in school—6. Oh yeah, better not forget his fluent English—7—otherwise we probably wouldn’t be able to call him our friend because Clare and I are still appalling mono-linguistic.
Being able to ask where the bathroom is, or count to ten—our combined extent of foreign language prowess—does not make one fluent. I envy Clayton and a great number of the people we meet on the island—Maltese and not—who all speak a handful of tongues. Learning another language is on my bucket list, maybe I just need to unlearn English first.
Anyway, no matter your language the beauty of Malta is difficult to describe. Even more so when arriving by sea as the capitol, Valletta, is built on a peninsula surrounded by a series of fortified bays—it’s as if you are sailing inside a castle. With summer past we find plenty of room in a small pocket of Grand Harbor where we drop our anchor and leave it untouched for weeks to come.
Living rent-free in a harbor criss-crossed by the pages of history and backdropped by a skyline from a Renaissance fairytale doesn’t really cause itchy feet. And now, with a fully functioning outboard dinghy engine for the first time since pretty much leaving Florida, we are able to navigate the “Three Cities” faster than any car and can soak up all the sights along the way. Sure, the sky is often cloudy and the seas do get chunky, but look at what that does for the photos!
We dine on regional cuisine (even enjoy a massive home-cooked feast) and shop at local markets. We gawk at the surrounding architecture and pop into the elaborately decorated churches. We enjoy the Maltese pep and hospitality and hear endless complaints about the relentless traffic—but I suppose nearly half a million people crammed onto an island measuring only 14 x 6 miles certainly takes its toll.
Did we see it all? Not by a long shot. Like I said, we didn’t even move anchor. But another great thing about Malta…it’s basically in the exact middle of the Mediterranean, so there’s a good chance we’ll pass these shores again. Maybe next time the wind will lay down and the sun will come out…anything to keep Clare from curling up in all the blankets and refusing to budge.
Here’s to tongue exercises.